A Reckless Encounter. Rosemary Rogers
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Jacqueline gave a small gasp of delight. “It is Northington!”
A chill shivered down Celia’s spine. She steeled herself to turn and look toward Lord Northington at last, and drew in a deep breath for courage.
Yet she could not find him. She had thought there would be instant recognition, that the hatred she had nursed all these years would immediately focus on Northington despite the time that had passed. Yet none of the men present had the face of her childhood nightmares.
She had a vague impression of a tall man with dark hair, impeccably dressed and with an air of polite boredom in his movements, but her gaze focused beyond him.
“This must be the young lady who has captured Sir John’s instant admiration,” a deep voice said, the tone slow, rich, seductive.
He reached for her hand, took it in his broad palm, held her fingers in a light clasp as he bent to place a kiss upon her gloved knuckles.
Celia did not resist. She felt as if all eyes were watching, waiting for her response. Panic swelled, coupled with an overwhelming need to escape. But it was his touch that unnerved her most.
Faintly, she managed to say, “If you will excuse me, I must attend to some personal business.”
Celia maneuvered a path through the crowd without taking flight or stumbling. She had to escape that penetrating gaze and the discovery that this Northington was not the man she had hated for so long, was not the man she had come to ruin.
There had to be two Lord Northingtons.
Also available from ROSEMARY ROGERS and MIRA Books
SWEET SAVAGE LOVE
SAVAGE DESIRE
WICKED LOVING LIES
A Reckless Encounter
Rosemary Rogers
To my family
To all my readers, lifelong and new. I cherish your loyalty much more than I can say. And to my wonderful editors at MIRA Books, Dianne Moggy and Martha Keenan. Here’s to a glorious future!
CONTENTS
PART I
“The heart has reasons of which reason has no knowledge.”
—Pascal, Pensées
Prologue
Georgetown, District of Columbia
1810
Danger wore an elegant coat and arrogance. When twelve-year-old Celia Sinclair opened the door that cool autumn evening, a tall man with features as sharp as a hawk stood on the stoop. His voice was impatient and brusque, the words clipped, the accent unmistakably British.
“I have come to visit Madame.”
When she did not reply, but continued to stare at him, he added impatiently, “This is the home of Léonie St. Remy, is it not?”
Celia smoothed her hands over the blue kersey of